


Primrose-season

by disenchanted



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18406226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disenchanted/pseuds/disenchanted
Summary: Hickey and Irving fall victim to an unusual sickness.





	Primrose-season

It felt so good John was sure he was being spoken to by God. Rings of white flowers circled around the edges of his vision. He felt, at the same time as the pleasure, a sharp nausea and a searing headache. Hickey’s scent was sweet in his nose and mouth, sweeter for being mixed with Hickey’s taste. He couldn’t keep his hands still, and fumbled pulling Hickey’s jacket off. Drool dripped down the divot in his bottom lip; Hickey saw it and licked it back into his mouth, and kissed him wetly.

Hickey had the sickness in him too: his sweat smelt like a Scottish garden in summer. Did he hear the same noise? It was like liquid in John’s head. He tugged at Hickey’s shirt and pressed his mouth down his neck and up his forearms, trying to taste him. If there had ever been a sense of shame in him there was none now; he was laying Hickey down among the cables and spare rigging and unbuttoning his slops, kissing Hickey’s fine reddened yard.

Putting his mouth on Hickey’s yard gratified John as much as if he were doing it to himself. John closed his lips around it and Hickey put his fingers in his hair and clenched, and even as John felt the hair ripping from his scalp he sucked greedily. He went half-limp with pleasure each time his own yard brushed against the bunched-up fabric of his shirt beneath the waist of his buttoned trousers, and it was like that, with his hands clutching Hickey’s shoulders and his nose pressed into the coarse hair above his prick, that he spent for the first time, whimpering in fear of his own helplessness.

With a hand in John’s hair, stroking now rather than pulling, Hickey hushed him. Hickey’s seed was on his tongue, and he felt it soak in there, dye his flesh pearlescent white, sprout and fill his mouth with pungent flowers. Bells rang in his ears.

‘Hickey,’ cried John, ‘Hickey, I’m sorry.’

Hickey’s face was flushed, his eyes low-lidded. His yard hadn’t softened; there was clear fluid dripping from it still. He pulled John up the length of his body to kiss and while kissing him unbuttoned his trousers, getting his hand round his yard and tugging at it, spreading John’s own sweat and spend down his shaft.

‘I forgive you,’ said Hickey, and shoved John onto his stomach, nudging his bare thighs apart.

John saw nothing but the pattern in the wood of the deck, which moved before his eyes like falling sand. His prick was so hard he was weeping openly, spilling tears at his frustration. He could not reach down to touch himself: Hickey had his hands over his wrists, pinning him in place.

John said, ‘Please will you bugger me. Please, fuck me. I’ll die. I beg you.’

‘I know,’ said Hickey, bending down to kiss John’s neck. ‘Shh—shh. I know. I’ll keep you safe, lieutenant.’

He let John’s hands loose. John grasped his own yard, which was stiff to aching; Hickey spread John’s arse-cheeks and licked at his hole, spat on it, licked through his spit. Falling forward, pressing his forehead to the deck, John spent again, his eyes leaking and his nose running, as if his body were wringing out all its vital fluids.

Again it was only a sudden cresting of pleasure, he was not cured: the underside of his yard scraped up against the deck as he rocked his hips, and even that made him cry out, thankful for some half-second or second of relief. He needed to be buggered, to be sodomised in the manner forbidden both by God and by the Articles of War. Perhaps then—

They were still wearing their shirts. The front of Hickey’s was soaked with sweat; John felt the dampness in the fabric of his own, as if his skin were Hickey’s skin. When Hickey’s yard was in him, filling him, he said, ‘Oh—there. There. I don’t—’

‘Shh,’ said Hickey. He pressed his chest to John’s back and threw his arms about him, keeping him steady as he fucked him. He cried out just like John did, and at the same time.

‘I don’t understand why this is happening,’ said John, ‘I don’t understand why I’m doing this. Hickey—’

‘You’ll see,’ said Hickey, and laughed hoarsely.

Hickey latched his ratlike teeth to the nape of John’s neck and bit until John was limp beneath him, compliant. John held himself up just far enough so that Hickey could fuck him as deeply as his prick would allow. Hickey’s spit was on his skin, flooding his pores; his spit was in Hickey’s mouth, on his forearms and neck, seeping into Hickey. The scent here, better than any lilac or rose, was so strong it choked, and each sensation was magnified as if it were under a microscope. John felt himself crawling with a billion little creatures, felt himself made up of them, slithering over one another and merging with the creatures that made up Hickey. The next time they spent it was together, shuddering against and within and around themselves, blooming with light and heat.

There was a step sounding on the ladder, but John scarcely heard it over the ringing, and he did not care. He was not an officer any longer, he was not Lieutenant John Irving of HMS Terror; the man inside of him was not Cornelius Hickey. They had taken root in each other, and were growing out of each other, profuse and malignant as a weed or a plague. They could not be punished because they were neither man nor beast: neither superior nor inferior, nor officer nor petty officer, nor man, nor woman, nor saved, nor damned. Even if they were shot dead like rabid beasts they would remain. They would grow into the decks and the bulkheads, they would chew through the sails and the rigging, they would eat away the pitch and oakum in the seams between the planks of the hull. Best of all they would live: whether they sank into the ice, whether they fell to the seabed, whether they were lashed or hanged, they would live.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> See here be all the pleasures  
> That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,  
> When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns  
> Brisk as the April buds in Primrose-season. (Milton's Comus, 668-71)


End file.
